


First and Ten

by inlovewithnight



Category: Brothers & Sisters
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-20
Updated: 2007-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-15 21:46:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/165232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inlovewithnight/pseuds/inlovewithnight





	First and Ten

Jason is just full of surprises.

Kevin isn't sure if this is a good surprise or a bad surprise, but it is a...surprising surprise.

"You're a football fan," he says, uncertainly, from the doorway, where he isn't sure if he wants to step forward or back.

"I support the USC Trojans," Jason says without a trace of a smile, pointing the remote at Kevin. "And if you make the joke I can see percolating behind your beady little eyes, I will throw something at you."

"I wasn't going to make a joke." Kevin takes a half-step forward, peering at the screen. Grown men in red and gold are standing in a parking lot, waving their arms and yelling. Yes, football is still football. "And I don't have beady eyes."

"You're right. You have very nice eyes. I'm sorry I said that." Jason's eyes flick from Kevin to the screen and back.

"You really intend to watch this game."

"I really, really do."

"You're wearing a _jersey_."

"I am." Jason still isn't smiling. Alarm bells are going off in Kevin's head.

Most alarming of all, Jason looks hot in that jersey. Kevin has no idea what is happening to him lately. He expects to look in the mirror one day and discover he's growing gills, or something. Jesus. No, wait, not literally, Jesus, don't pay any attention to the guy who's hovering in the doorway like a freak.

"Are you going to come sit down?" Jason asks.

"I don't know." Kevin shifts his weight, looking at the screen again. "Are you...allowed to watch football?"

"Why wouldn't I be allowed to watch football? College football, at least. The games air on Saturdays."

"It just doesn't seem very Godly. The violence and all."

Jason tilts his head and studies Kevin for a minute, and then he does smile, finally. "Come over here and sit down."

"I don't know."

Jason raises one eyebrow and points to the table in front of him. "Trump card, and before you even ask, it's totally God-approved: I have beer."  
**  
Surprise number two, though it really shouldn't be a surprise at all, given that Kevin is somewhat familiar with the way that men react to their football teams: football turns Jason on.

Well, his football team _winning_ turns Jason on, anyway. He's definitely excited, skin flushed above and beyond the beer, eyes bright, all kinds of helpful physical flags that Kevin is pleased to see and happy to encourage, even though he has absolutely no goddamn idea what is going on beyond the numbers on the scoreboard.

At the end of the first quarter, the Trojans (and okay, he can't help it, that's funny) are ahead 14 to 3, and if they keep that pace up Kevin's pretty sure he's going to get laid at halftime. Which is much better than what he understands to be the traditional college-halftime activities of drinking more and watching a marching band. Kevin hates marching bands. He just decided that now, but he's pretty sure it's true, or if he doesn't hate them, he likes them much less than he likes having sex.

Sex with his ridiculously hot boyfriend who is even now up out of his seat and yelling very unminister-like things at the referees through the TV screen.

Apparently the traditional sartorial accompaniment to a Trojans (heh) jersey is a pair of worn-out sweatpants that barely cling to the hips, and whose clinging gets even more tenuous when one is leaping out of one's seat to hurl abuse at referees. Fortunately, Jason's...enthusiasm for the game is helpful to keeping them in place. Kevin takes another swallow of beer and sends a few vague thoughts skyward to whatever saint or angel or holy thing in general is in charge of the college football season.

Jason collapses back onto the couch next to him. "Did you see that?" he demands, waving his hands in the air. "That is ridiculous. Holding my _ass_."

"You are so hot right now," Kevin mumbles into his beer bottle.

Jason blinks at him, apparently puzzled for a moment, and then his expression clears. "There are another eleven minutes and forty-two seconds on the clock before we can think about that."

"I know." Kevin nods calmly and takes another drink, making sure to roll his tongue slowly around the lip of the bottle. Jason is worked up and excited and in a highly un-serene mood, which is how Kevin likes him best. See exhibit A: the Walker family pantry.

Jason watches Kevin's mouth for a long moment, his eyes darkening and getting hungrier, and Kevin thinks that he might finally have achieved his own personal goal of proving to be more interesting and important than a sporting event, which probably has some kind of deep-seated daddy-issue-related roots that he doesn't care to examine too closely at this juncture.

But then the whistles blow on the screen again, and Jason almost falls off the couch whirling around to see what happened, and Kevin just sighs and reaches for another beer. Eleven minutes and twenty-one seconds on the game clock until halftime. Right.  
**  
Kevin had forgotten how one minute of football time is equivalent to about six and a half to ten minutes of real-world time. He's slumped low on the couch, half-asleep from the beer in his system and the constant buzz of the crowd noise and meaningless-to-him sportscast chatter, peeling the label off his bottle and trying to remember if his gray suit is back from the cleaners or if he'll have to wear the brown one that he hates on Monday.

Yet another whistle blows, and he ignores it, until he suddenly finds himself being neatly turned and pinned back against the arm of the couch.

"Um," he says, blinking at Jason, whose face is suddenly only a few inches from his own. "Hi?"

"Hi," Jason says, leaning in to nuzzle at Kevin's neck. "We have twenty minutes."

"Twenty real minutes or twenty football minutes?"

"Twenty minutes exactly." Jason's teeth scrape over the sensitive skin and Kevin shivers all over. "Make it count."

"Wow, that's romantic." Kevin closes his eyes and struggles to hold back a groan as Jason bites down again, deliberately this time.

"Romance," Jason mumbles against the sore skin, "doesn't go with football."

"What does go with...oh, Jesus...football?"

"Mmm." Apparently, _talking_ also does not go with football, as Jason covers Kevin's mouth with his and kisses him deeply, pressing him harder back against the couch. Kevin shifts beneath him, tangling his legs with Jason's and finding the hem of the jersey, tugging it up enough to get his hands beneath it and find skin.

Jason makes a low, approving sound and then pulls back, breathing hard. "Up."

"What?"

"Up." Jason gestures vaguely until Kevin sits up, blinking in puzzlement, hoping to God that this doesn't have anything to do with the fact that the marching band on the screen is playing the USC fight song, because if it does, he's going to commit minister-cide right here in the living room.

Once he's sitting, though, Jason grabs a fistful of his t-shirt and peels it right up over his head and off of him, then pushes him back down to the couch and kisses him again with doubled enthusiasm. Kevin runs his hands down Jason's body, enjoying the planes and curves of muscle and bone he's still just getting to know in detail, making detours to stretch out the journey until Jason huffs in frustration against his mouth.

"You're mean," Jason says, bracing himself over Kevin and looking down at him as sternly as he can while sweaty and disheveled and flushed. "Really mean."

"I am not," Kevin counters, slipping his fingers under Jason's waistband at his hips and dragging them slowly toward his spine.

"You are too," Jason says, and ducks his head to catch Kevin's lower lip between his own and suck on it slowly. "Good thing I like you this way."

Kevin wants to protest again and defend his honor, he really does. But Jason plays dirtier than any minister has any right to, pulling away and moving back down the couch, running one hand flat down Kevin's torso to his fly and following the path with his mouth, grazing the skin with his teeth and soothing it with his tongue. He glances up at Kevin, eyes bright and wicked and painfully blue, as he slips the button and slides the zipper and reaches into Kevin's boxers to free his cock.

Jason's talents at giving blowjobs are not at all a surprise by this point. His ability to maintain concentration while the football announcers debate the performance of quarterback John David Booty, on the other hand, is impressive, especially given that Kevin himself doesn't quite manage to keep his composure and starts giggling more than once.

The giggling doesn't last that long, though, because Jason really is _very_ good at this, and by the time the TV cuts back from the announcers to the band leaving the field Kevin is digging his fingers deep into the cushions and arching his hips off the couch, cursing under his breath as he comes deep in Jason's mouth.

Jason sits up and runs his hand through his hair, breathing roughly. The hard curve of his cock is clear through his sweats, and undercuts the stern look he tries to give Kevin. "I hope none of that laughing was at me?"

"Absolutely not," Kevin says fervently, reaching for him. "Get back over here and I'll prove it."

Jason groans in relief and moves forward again on his knees, then stops as a whistle shrills from the TV again. Kevin looks over at the screen in disbelief as the Trojans and the other team jog out onto the field.

"Oh, come _on_ ," Jason says. "That's not fair."

Kevin stares at him for a beat and then shakes his head. "I'll be offended later, just so you know," he informs him, sitting up and then slipping off the couch and onto his knees on the floor. "For now..." He taps at Jason's legs, conducting him around like a doll until Jason is sitting properly on the couch, sweats pushed down to his knees, and Kevin is settled between his thighs and taking him in his mouth.

Jason makes gorgeous sounds, low and thick and hot, and Kevin is familiar enough with them to know that they're because of him, not the game that's gathering sound behind him. Jason's hips jerk at one point, probably the kickoff, and Kevin nearly rolls his eyes but instead takes Jason deeper, determined to offer as much distraction as humanly possible.

He does a pretty good job at it, from what he can tell; somewhere between when Jason threads his fingers into Kevin's hair to steady himself, when he tenses and shudders and comes, and when he tugs Kevin back up onto the couch and into his lap and kisses him deep and slow, USC scores a touchdown and an extra point that neither one of them remembers at all.

"They'll replay the highlights on SportsCenter," Jason mumbles, resting his head on Kevin's shoulder and watching the cheerleaders do backflips down the sidelines. "Don't worry."

"Oh, I wasn't," Kevin assures him, closing his eyes and breathing in the scent of Jason's hair. "That worry never crossed my mind."  



End file.
